


It's Not Just A Coincidence

by blarfkey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And his muse, F/M, Lace and her badassery, Thedas Indiana Jones, featuring:, horrible inaccuracies for the sake of plot, varric and his ridiculous wooing tactics, writer varric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: "So how exactly do you skin and eat a fish?" Varric asks.Lace drags her gaze away from the fire. "Okay, well first of all, you don't skin a fish.""Ah.""You clean a fish and debone it. Sometimes people leave the scales and sometimes they cut the scales away. Depends on the fish.""What kind of fish keeps the scales?"There's a sound of scratching -- he's actually writing down notes. In a tiny notepad. With a pencil nub. It’s kind of adorable."If you want me to teach you how to clean a fish, it would be better to just show you. We can do it tomorrow evening at the next camp," she suggests."Oh no. I'm not doing this for me," he chuckles. "It's for a book."_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Varric finds a muse for his latest book idea. Then feelings get involved.
Relationships: Lace Harding/Varric Tethras
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23
Collections: A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	It's Not Just A Coincidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joatrades44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joatrades44/gifts).



> I was intrigued by this pairing and now I'm sold!

"So how exactly do you skin and eat a fish?" Varric asks.

Lace drags her gaze away from the fire. "Okay, well first of all, you don't skin a fish."

"Ah."

"You _clean_ a fish and debone it. Sometimes people leave the scales and sometimes they cut the scales away. Depends on the fish."

"What kind of fish keeps the scales?"

There's a sound of scratching -- he's actually writing down _notes_. In a tiny notepad. With a pencil nub. It’s kind of adorable.

"If you want me to teach you how to clean a fish, it would be better to just show you. We can do it tomorrow evening at the next camp," she suggests.

"Oh no. I'm not doing this for me," he chuckles. "It's for a book."

"A book?"

"Yeah, all this trekking in the woods is giving me an idea for a more classic adventurer character. But I grew up in Kirkwall. I know shit-all about the woods. You seem to have a good idea of what to do."

"I mean, I did grow up here," Lace points out. "On a farm. With real animals."

"Oh, with real animals?” His eyebrows climb up his forehead and she knows he’s mocking her. But not unkindly. “Mind if I pick your brain from time to time?"

Lace smiles. "It would be an honor, Master Tethras."

He winces. "Please. Only my publisher calls me that and only when he's pissed. Call me Varric."

The rest of the time spent in the Hinterlands, Varric comes to each camp prepared with a list of questions he's thought over throughout the day.

What mushrooms are edible?

How long could someone live in the woods with a broken leg?

How do you skin and eat _insert random wild animal here_.

What's the best way to cook a deer?

More than once he's apologized in advance before breaking out the notepad and a list of endless questions. But Lace doesn't mind at all. Compared to all the adventures he has, her sleepy, provincial life should seem disgustingly mundane to him, and yet he listens to her with rapt attention.

Even when they veer off topic into some silly childhood story of her, his interest never wavers and he always laughs in all the right places.

"What about you?" she asks one night on the road back to Haven. "Don't you get sick of listening to me?"

“Freckles, I could never be sick of listening to you," he says. "Trust me, all anyone wants to hear about me is all the shit that happened with Hawke. I'd rather hear about your farm."

"I don't just care about Hawke," she says. "What was your childhood like? What city adventures did you get up to as a kid?"

Varric throws her grateful smile, but sorrow lingers in the corners. "You're very kind. But my childhood was nowhere near as fun as yours. Tell me again how you snuck into Dennet's stables as a kid?"

She launches into the story if only to hear him laugh again and wipe that sadness from his mouth.

He does not disappoint.

Both the cold and the sudden loss of Haven numb her to the warmth of the fire in front of her. She holds her hands out before it more for the formality of it than for any desire for warmth. She tries to distract herself from the dance of the flames, but all she can see are the faces of the people that didn't make it.

Not even the discovery of the Inquisitor in the snow is enough to cheer her.

The log shifts under her as a familiar weight drops beside her.

"One time when I was twelve my brother Bartrand came up with this so-called genius scam to net us a ton of money," Varric begins.

Lace drags her gaze away to look at him. He looks tired and haggard, a cut in his hairline and dried blood in the corner of his eye.

"What was the scam?" she asks.

He lets out a huff of soft laughter, his breath crystalizing in front of him.

"Well before I can tell you that, I have to explain something about the Hightown marketplace."

It's a shame Varric spends most of their time together listening to her -- his voice soothes her like a cup of warm cider. And true to form, he knows how to spin a good story. Despite herself, Lace finds herself laughing.

When she crawls into her bedroll after watch, her chest doesn't feel so heavy.

Varric buys Lace her first drink when the tavern gets up and running in Skyhold. Scouting expeditions having been suspended until everyone gets their bearings, Lace throws in helping build scaffolding and reinforcing old walls.

Varric throws himself into his manuscript.

At least once a day he will wander by and share snippets of what he's written. Piece by piece the main character reveals herself.

She's an archer -- like Lace.

Her parents are farmers -- like Lace.

She's a dwarf - like Lace.

"You're really drawing on originality here, aren't you?" she asks him, nibbling on the bread and jerky he smuggled from the kitchens for her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you might as well call her Hace Larding and be done with it."

Varric laughs. "Well, you know, the book wouldn't exist without your help, so I figured I'd give you some of the limelight, as it were." He tilts his head a little. "I can change it, if you want."

"No, no," she says with a wave of her hand. "It's nice, having what I do look so heroic. I'm not going to say no to that."

"I think everything you do is heroic. Shit, how many times did you save our ass just from Haven to here alone? Don't sell yourself short, Harding."

A blush blooms to life across her cheeks. "Thanks, Varric."

"Speaking of heroics, you deserve a drink. Meet me up in the tavern when you're done here. I'll get you anything you want."

The stuff Cabot manages to produce on next to nothing supplies in the middle of nowhere is impressive. Lace and Varric brainstorm plot ideas that get sillier and sillier as they get deeper and deeper into their cups. He half carries her to her bedroll in the barracks, singing the whole way in a lovely baritone.

She wakes up humming.

Varric seems to go everywhere with the Inquisitor. Lace meets up with him in the most far flung corners of Thedas, and they spend the first hour of watch trading complaints about the terrain before Varric brings forth his barrage of questions.

It's a welcome respite from the grueling travel and hacking her way through environments that become increasingly unfriendly. She finds herself making notes of particularly harrowing creatures, or interesting caves tucked away in cliffsides where smugglers had taken up, to give him ideas the next time they meet up.

And when she's finally able to rest her tired bones a while at Skyhold, he's always there with a drink and more story. Lace will listen to him read it over a pint or five of ale, pointing out any bits that sound too unrealistic, even for an adventure story and seeing if she can guess who in the Inquisition the side characters are based on.

The mysterious hedge mage who deciphers ancient texts and speaks mostly in cryptic gibberish -- that's Solas.

The burly blacksmith that gets reluctantly dragged into the quest -- that's Blackwall.

The cold and calculating queen out to get the treasure for herself -- that's clearly Vivienne.

And the rival treasure hunter who's always got a flirtatious quip and an outrageous story -- definitely Varric.

She keeps her suspicions to herself though, and lets Varric have his fun. 

It gets harder to keep her mouth shut when the story takes a turn for the romantic. More accurately, _steamy_ romance. The Not-Varric rival has teamed up temporarily with Not-Lace to fight against the Not-Vivienne queen and her assassin sidekick who is clearly Not-Leliana. This leads to a harrowingly narrow escape from almost certain death and surprised but enthusiastic kissing between Not-Varric and Not-Lace.

Lace's eyes climb higher and higher up her forehead as Varric reads this last part aloud. The two characters have had flirty banter all through the story, but this kiss borders on the filthy right before they're interrupted by another harrowing near death experience.

And of course, that's where he stops for the night.

Usually he's pestering her for feedback as soon as the last sentence leaves his mouth. But tonight a strange, expectant silence stretches between them.

Lace tries to parse exactly what she thinks is happening. Her instincts are screaming, but there's no way that _Varric_ of all people -- and _her_ , some hick farm girl from Redcliffe --

Judging from the careful way Varric looks at her, as if afraid of giving away too much, maybe her instincts might be right.

"So . . .what did you think," he asks, trying to hide his nerves by draining his flagon, but Lace has skewered his manuscript enough times to know when he's feeling twitchy.

"I think," she says slowly, hoping to the Maker she's not wrong and this isn't about to turn into the most awkward night of her life, "that you could have just asked me out."

Varric sets down the flagon with a deep thunk, that mischievous glint she's started to adore in the last few months in his eyes.

"I did," he says. "Just in a more . . ."

"-- roundabout, ridiculous way," she finishes for him.

"I like to think of it as dramatic and romantic. I'm not just any --"

Lace leans over the table and grabs a fistful of his shirt, tugging him closer and kissing him soundly on the mouth. Someone wolf whistles in the tavern -- Krem from the sound of it.

" _That's_ dramatic and romantic," she says, sitting back in her seat, the smug, satisfied one for once.

Varric blinks, stunned for a moment -- but only a moment. Then he rests his elbow on the table and leans forward, a wolfish grin on his face.

"I always bow to your expertise," he says. "Which reminds me, I have a few upcoming scenes with those two that I could use your help with. Just some basic reenacting, so I can get the feel of things. Purely for the story's benefit."

"Right," she says, trying to sound cool despite the blush rising up her neck. "I've been helping with accuracy all this time-- why stop now?"

"Exactly. We're the perfect team -- the writer and his muse."

His muse. Lace swallows, her heart thundering suddenly in her chest.

"There's no time like the present," she says, before she can chicken out.

The teasing glint in his eye turns suddenly . . . hungry.

"No, there's not."

He gathers and straightens the pieces of his manuscript with deliberate care. Then he slips out of the booth, holding his arm out to her.

"Shall we? I have a lot of ideas and you're going to need your sleep -- eventually."

Fighting down the sudden fluttering in her stomach, Lace slides out of the booth and takes his arm.

Varric lies to her.

She doesn't sleep.


End file.
